


After

by eggstasy



Series: Post Season 13 - Recuperation [3]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Season/Series 13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 12:17:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5585101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggstasy/pseuds/eggstasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"People giving me free shit because I got shot for their dumb war?  Giving me my own quarters or time off or their rations?  Totally, wholly deserved.  That’s fine.  But everything else: the medals, the articles, the promotions and whatever?  That’s indisputable ass-kissing.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	After

“I just can’t see how you can be okay with getting special treatment but be such a bitch about getting your picture taken.”

Grif rolls his eyes.  “There’s a difference Simmons, one I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

Simmons pulls the gauze a little tighter around Grif’s torso just for that satisfying hiss of pain.  “And what wouldn’t I understand, fatass?  That it’s too much work to shave before someone takes your picture for the newspaper?”

“Nobody’s read a newspaper in centuries, Simmons.  Christ.”  Grif reaches for his shirt, realizes it’s too far away and just decides to go topless.  Let the body breathe or some shit, it’s supposed to help with healing.  He heard that somewhere.

“Enlighten me.”  Simmons meticulously packs up the medical kit.  Actually writes something down on a note inside of it, probably something like the exact amount of gauze left, in centimeters, _the nerd._   “What’s the difference?”

“The difference,” Grif grunts as he gingerly lays back down, “is in the intent.  People giving me free shit because I got shot for their dumb war?  Giving me my own quarters or time off or their rations?  Totally, wholly deserved.  That’s fine.  But everything else: the medals, the articles, the promotions and whatever?  That’s indisputable ass-kissing.”

“Ass-kissing,” Simmons echoes flatly.

“Yup.”

“Being recognized publicly for your efforts and sacrifice is considered ass-kissing.  _Offering a promotion_ because of your service to an entire planet is _ass-kissing._ ”  Simmons rolls his eyes and sighs.  “You are the biggest idiot.”

“Or am I the only guy around here making sense?”

“You’re _definitely_ an idiot.”

“And you’re _definitely_ an ass-kisser.  Which is why I said you wouldn’t get it.”  Grif tucks his hands beneath his head despite the pull of still-healing skin.

“So is that the reason why you’ve barely come out of here since you got released from the hospital?  Because you’re going to run out of people to bring you your meals, y’know.”

“Bullshit.  Matthews is also an ass-kisser. He’ll bring me meals until the day I die.”

Simmons doesn’t return with a comeback, which is odd because Grif left that one wide open for at least several jabs.  He rolls his head to see Simmons lingering on the bandages before quietly shutting the kit with a click.

“Dude, how long are you gonna keep doing that?”

“What?”  Simmons stands up and tucks the kit under his arm.  “Change your bandages?  Until you do it yourself, which will probably never happen.”

“You wanna play this game with me, sure.  But I know you’re lying, and you know that I know.”  Grif closes his eyes and faces the ceiling again with a yawn.  “Unless you got somethin’ to say to me, I’m gonna take a nap.”

“I just woke you _up_ from a nap!” Simmons cries.

“Right, so obviously I’ve got something to get back to.”

Grif tries not to be disappointed when he hears his door swish open and shut, and he gives out an irritated huff once he’s sure Simmons is gone.  Okay.  The usual approach won’t work here.  Apparently he’s going to have to put in some effort.

He mutters to the emptiness of the room, “Way to put all the work on me, Simmons.”

* * *

 “Boss,” Wash pleads, hands gripping either side of the doorway to block her from entering the room.  Extremely brave of him, considering she could easily crack three of his ribs with him standing like that.  Brave and stupid.

“Move your ass, Wash,” she says lightly, canting her weight to the side.

“I don’t think you understand what you’re doing.”

Carolina raises a brow.

“Respectfully,” he amends and she smirks. 

Caboose (unnecessarily) stands on his toes behind Carolina to look over the top of her head.  “Do you want to help, Agent Washington?”

“No,” Wash squeaks and that _almost_ gets him to move, but he’s a stubborn bastard.  “No, uh, that’s fine Caboose.”

Carolina folds her arms. “So are you gonna let us go inside?”

“Carolina,” Wash starts, eyes flicking up toward Caboose.  “Look.  You haven’t spent as much time around Caboose as I have.  Maybe this isn’t the best method of training for him.”

“Caboose is also a soldier,” Carolina explains.  “He deserves to be treated like one.  You all baby the hell out of him, so of course he’s never going to learn anything.”

“And there are no babies in the army Wash because nobody wants to be friends with them!”

“See?”  Carolina taps her knuckles back against Caboose’s chest.  “He knows what he’s getting into.”

“He really, really doesn’t.”  Wash doesn’t have to add _and neither do you._   Carolina can see it on his worried, tired face.  It’s that exhaustion that keeps her from hooking one of his ankles and just throwing him out of the way.  It’s actually kind of hilarious how looks like a beleaguered father who doesn’t want to let his precious child go out on the playground with the bigger, meaner kids.  Though she supposes that makes her a bigger, meaner kid.

“Wash.  What do you think I’m going to do?”

“Nothing,” Wash answers quickly.  “It’s what I think is going to _happen._   Caboose has a habit of- well, he’s-” Carolina folds her arms as he fidgets and shoots furtive glances at Caboose.  She is _not_ helping him with this one.  “You’re just clumsy sometimes, buddy.”

“Accidents happen,” Caboose chirps, scratching his arm as his attention wanders.

“Okay.  I get what you’re saying.”  Carolina even lets Wash relax before she continues, because it’s funnier that way.  “But move.  Because I’m doing it anyway.”  She jabs him in the side.  Wash doubles over with a wheeze as Carolina slips past him into the training room, heading for the mats to sit down and pull off her boots.

Caboose joins her side the same time as Wash, crouching next to her as Wash hovers nervously behind them, rubbing his ribs.  “Boss-”

“He’s in excellent shape,” Carolina interrupts.  Funny is swiftly becoming annoying.  So what if Caboose is a special case?  It’s not like she’s never lead a team of oddballs before.  “He’s strong and he’s fast.  When he’s paying attention, his reflexes are good and he has decent observational skills.  I’m not going to let any of my soldiers go into another fight without even knowing how to throw a punch just because you’re afraid of -boots off before you stand on the mats, Caboose- afraid of something going wrong.”

“He doesn’t _understand,_ ” Wash whispers, watching Caboose throw himself down on the edge of the mats and fumble with his shoelaces.  “He’s not going to retain it.  Carolina, sometimes he doesn’t even remember how old he is and that’s on his _good_ days.”

“This isn’t the same as pulling up useless facts-”

“Knowing your own age isn’t exactly a useless-”

“-this is training.  Muscle memory.  Reflex retention.”  Carolina rolls her eyes.  “Wash.  I’m not going to make him _more_ dangerous by training him a little.  Just so he knows how to hit someone properly, how to move without hurting himself.  All right?  You keep leaving him untrained and then setting him loose and expecting him to just muscle his way through unscathed.  He’s not an animal, he shouldn’t be throwing himself around the battlefield like one.”

Wash jerks back.  “I don’t think he’s an _animal._ ”

“Yes, because I am a human,” Caboose says happily as he sits down beside Carolina in socked feet.

Carolina gives Wash a _look_ before she taps the mats with a finger.  “Socks off too.  They’ll make you slip.”

“Oh, okay.”

Carolina gets up and pads onto the mats before beginning a few sets of kata to warm up.  She can hear Wash trying his luck with Caboose and makes only a cursory attempt to ignore it.  “Do you know what she’s teaching you?”

“How to punch people right,” Caboose answers, carefully peeling his socks off inch by inch.

“And is that something you _want_ to learn?”

Caboose stops then, tilting his head and pulling on his sock, stretching it out.  “I don’t like to get into fights, but sometimes it happens.”  He glances at Carolina before waving a hand to get her attention.  “Please don’t listen, Agent Carolina!”

Carolina makes a show of covering her ears and turns her back on them.

“Church gave me a job,” Caboose whispers, voice louder than his usual speaking tone and making Wash wince since it’s right there in his ear.  “I can’t tell you what it is, because that’s a secret.  But I think this will help.” 

Wash leans back to look at him.  “…are you sure about this?  She’s going to be really tough on you.”

“That’s okay.”

Wash sits back on his heels and tries not to feel too…whatever weird upset parental feeling is happening now.  “Well, all right.  It’s your decision.  Just…be careful, okay buddy?”  He tries not to be surprised when Caboose scoops him up in a crushing hug –“ _Careful!  I said be careful!_ ”- but it always catches him off guard.  And now his ribs _really_ hurt.

Wash still hangs out by the doorway and watches Carolina interact with Caboose, pushing him down into doing pushups while she finishes her kata, having him run a few circles around the training mats to warm up.  He watches her adjust Caboose’s elbow, his knee, watches her pause before figuring out how to explain something and thinks that he must’ve missed something, must have failed to pay close enough attention because he doesn’t remember the two of them getting so close.  When had Carolina shifted back into treating people like people instead of assets?

He’d thought he was further along than she was in that regard, and he feels shitty for thinking it.  _It’s not a race,_ says something that sounds like North.

It’s not a race, of course.  But if it were, Carolina would win.  She always wins.

* * *

Donut strides into the medical wing labs.  “Doc, how are you doing?”

Doc startles and almost drops a tray of dubiously-acquired blood samples.  “Gah- Donut!  Man, you scared me!  I’m doing fine, I guess.  Having trouble sleeping.  Actually, I could really use someone to talk to about everything that’s hap-”

“Sorry Doc, I’m already late!  I have to get going, you take care!”

Donut bustles out the door and Doc blinks after him.  “Oh…okay then.  Bye.”  His fingers tighten on the tray before he calls after Donut.  “Wait, was that seriously it?  -are you wearing bedazzled booty shorts?!”

* * *

Tucker’s paying such close attention to the way his sneakers sound when they slap against the asphalt he doesn’t even hear Washington come up behind him until he’s matching his pace at his shoulder.  Then he doesn’t look because he doesn’t want Wash to know he caught him by surprise.

“…you didn’t even hear me, did you?”

Fuck.  “Shut up,” Tucker pants.

“You’ve stopped complaining during drills,” Wash notes lightly.  He’s not out of breath yet so he has the conversational advantage of being able to talk faster.  Tucker just knows he’s going to abuse the shit out of it.

“Yeah, well.”  Tucker tries not to wheeze.  Why did Wash have to catch him on his last lap?  Couldn’t he have stalked him a little earlier?  “Everyone has to- grow up sometime.”  Wash is suspiciously quiet after that.  Tucker gives him the stink-eye.  “What?”

“Nothing, just.  Better late than never, I guess.”

“Oh my god.”  Tucker decides that killing himself by sprinting his last lap would be better than suffering through Wash’s good mood.  In retrospect it was not a wise decision, because now he’s on the ground incapacitated as he tries to breathe while Wash is standing over him looking like he’s so goddamn proud of his own wit.

“It was a compliment, you know.”  Wash sinks into a crouch over him and Tucker wants to punch him in his stupid attractive face.  “I’m impressed with your new work ethic.  I just wanted to see where it was coming from.”

“You’re a lot more obvious about psychoanalyzing people than you think you are,” Tucker accuses.  He thinks about getting up.  Nah.  Wash is blocking the sun, he’ll stay right here.

At least that gets Wash to stop looking so sure of himself.  Tucker doesn’t mind confidence, but Wash seems to wear it as an ‘I can do or say anything I want because I’m right’ badge.  It’s obnoxious.  “Tucker.  I’m just worried about you.”

“You and everybody else.  If half the people who worried about me would _sleep_ with me, I’d never need to jerk off.”  Wash sighs and Tucker knows he saw through his attempt to make him so exasperated that he’d leave.  But it _does_ get Wash to sit down next to him instead of finishing his own laps, which has the added benefit of him still blocking the sun from Tucker’s eyes.

“You know you can talk to me about this.  If there’s anybody here who’d understand what you went through, it’s me.”

Tucker looks up at him.  The sky is all early morning orange and pink behind Wash’s shoulders and he feels stupid for thinking the view is nice.  “…yeah.  Yeah, I know.”

“I just wanted you to be aware of the option.”

“I’m _aware._ ”  Tucker clenches his hands into fists, frustrated more with himself than anything, and he reaches out to press his knuckles against Wash’s leg.  Makes eye contact.  “I know, Wash.” 

They look at each other for a while because they can, because it’s nice, but Wash needs to finish his laps and Tucker needs a shower.  Wash helps him up, holds his hand a little longer than would be normal before letting go and continuing his run.  Wash claims not to be big on PDA ever since Carolina caught them in the gym together.  Tucker has made it his next life goal to get Wash to make out in exponentially more public places.  “I’ll see you at lunch?”

Wash doesn’t glance back but lifts a hand.  Tucker watches him run.  Then cocks a brow and _admires_ him running.

_Nice._

* * *

_Clack.  Clack clack click.  Click cli-click click clack click._

“You know, you’re definitely not alone.  In fact, your reactions are pretty typical!”

Simmons shakes the abacus and starts over.  “Typical.  That’s _totally_ a character trait I want to have.”

“Isn’t it?  It certainly would make _my_ job a lot easier.”

Simmons hangs his head and sighs.

Dr. Grey leans forward and plucks the abacus gently from his hands.  “Simmons.  Is there a reason why today isn’t a good day for this?  Do you want to reschedule?”

“ _No._   No.”  The couch creaks as Simmons pushes himself up to sit.  It’s an old thing, probably unburied from some dilapidated house somewhere in the ruined section of the city. It just barely had the dust beaten out of it because it still stinks like concrete but it’s better than most of the other furniture they have available.  Folding chairs.  Collapsible wheeled cots for easy transport.  Nothing to maintain, nothing too valuable to lose.  Chorus is chronically peripatetic.

Simmons rubs his knee.  The one he gave up.  “I don’t know.  We’ve all been through a lot of shit but this one is just.  Sticking harder, for some reason.”

Emily crosses her legs.  “Is it because of what happened to Grif?”

To his credit, Simmons doesn’t flinch this time.  Just folds his hands between his knees and rubs a thumb over his nail.  “Part of it, yeah.  A big part of it.  I thought-  I just thought-”  He leans back and blows a breath up at his forehead.  “I thought if we ever died, it’d be both of us at once.  Probably because of something crazy Sarge wants us to do, probably in a Warthog with that stupid song playing.  Something dumb.  Something…”

“Unimportant.”

Simmons nods.

Dr. Grey scribbles a few words that her tablet transfers to text.  “And you think that if Grif had died, it would have been for something important.”

“He’d be a martyr.  I’m not trying to oversell us or anything-”

She holds up a hand.  “No, no, I think you’re right.  ‘Martyr’ is pretty accurate.” 

“But I’d still be here.  I’d still be here as just Simmons, just me.  By myself.”  Simmons rubs his face hard, a little too hard judging by the jerk and hiss as he draws his hands back.  “I’d have Sarge and Donut, but I’ve known Grif since basic.  He’s just- always been there.  Besides, he can’t be a martyr.  He doesn’t have the personality for it.”

Dr. Grey rests her chin in her hand.  “What kind of personality is required for martyrdom?”

“Probably somebody more proactive, for starters.”  Simmons sniffs disdainfully.  “Somebody who doesn’t just sit on his fat ass all day, hiding away in his room.  I’d _hope_ it’s somebody who showers once in a while.”

“So in other words, somebody who cares?”

“Nah, Grif cares. He makes it sound like he doesn’t but he _does_ and that’s the whole problem.”

“Is the problem here really about _Grif_ caring too much?”

Simmons looks up in surprise.

Dr. Grey patiently taps her chin.

Simmons clenches his fists atop his knees.  “…my dad didn’t-  It wasn’t…”

When waiting patiently didn’t produce any answers Dr. Grey flips through Simmons’s file on her tablet.  Almost four months of sessions have brought Simmons a long way, but the one topic that always stalls is that of his father.  Simmons will talk about his squadmates, his mother, his military career until he’s blue in the face but the second his father is mentioned-

Simmons jumps up abruptly.  “My dad was a shithead.”

Emily feels that electric _zap_ that comes with being on the cusp of solving a hard problem.  She tries not to grin but she really can’t help herself.  _Progress._   “Do you have somewhere to be, Captain Simmons?  Or should I be using Major now?”

“Haven’t decided if I’m taking the promotion yet!” Simmons calls over his shoulder as he dashes from the room.

* * *

“You know, I am a _very_ good listener.”

Carolina pauses in wiping down her face to give Caboose her most incredulous look.  They’ve just spent the last two hours trying to hammer a single grappling move into his head.  “You’re joking,” she says flatly.

“No really!  I’m great at listening.  I can listen to music.  I can listen to um, to explosions.”  Caboose stops to think.  Carolina is almost insulted that he’s not as out of breath as she is.  “I can listen to people…talk about their feelings…”

Ah.  That’s what this is about.  Carolina sighs and slings her towel around her neck.  “Caboose.  Did somebody put you up to this?”

He at least has the decency to look shifty about it.  “Someone didn’t _not_ put me up to it.”

“Do you understand what you just said?”

“Not really.”

Carolina shakes her head.  She’s already used up all her frustration trying to teach him earlier.  She doesn’t want to admit that Wash was right, but it _is_ proving a lot more difficult to train Caboose than she’s thought it would be.  They’ve been having three hour sessions twice a day for almost two weeks now and he’s still struggling through the basics.  Every time she shows him a step he forgets it the next second, and she has to reign his attention in so often she almost feels bad for all the shouting she’s doing.

Well.  The shouting she _did._   There was yelling at first, but apparently Caboose had adapted to let that sort of thing go in one ear and out the other, which isn’t a surprise considering who his friends are.  Carolina strongly suspects that any emotional resilience Caboose shows is actually ignorance.  She’d had to think hard and consult Dr. Grey for other ways to catch and hold his attention.  They’re still working on it.

She has his attention now, though.  Not that she wants it.  Caboose always seems to see too much when he’s not supposed to, right when people don’t _want_ him to notice anything.  If Carolina thought he was capable of it, she’d accuse Caboose of doing it on purpose.  “So.  Who told you to ask me about my feelings?”

Caboose fidgets with the drawstrings on his sweats.  “I can’t tell you.  It’s a secret.” 

It’s not his usual gleeful secret-keeping voice so Carolina doesn’t push it.  She has a feeling she knows what this is about, but that doesn’t mean she has to indulge it either.  “Well, tough rocks.  If the only reason you want to hear me talk about my feelings is because someone told you to, then I’m not doing it.”  She grabs up her gear bag and shoulders it, ready to leave when Caboose scrambles in front of her, blocking the door.  She raises a brow.  Bigger and stronger or not, she can flip his ass over her head and after their training he is very, very aware of it.

“I have other reasons!  I can tell you the other reasons.”  He at least looks terrified so she feels better at that and nods, lowering her bag.  Maybe she can use this.  If Caboose feels like he’s working toward a goal _he_ wants, maybe he’ll be able to pay closer attention to their lessons.  

They end up sitting together cross-legged on the mats, Caboose holding his ankles and Carolina using the opportunity to stretch out her legs and back.  She’s been having trouble with muscle stiffness as she speeds, terrifyingly, into middle-aged.  “All right,” she grunts.  “Go ahead and give me your reasons.”

He takes a while to answer.  The silence is almost a little uncomfortable by the time he finally breaks it.  “Agent Carolina?  Do you think you’re a lonely person?”

Carolina lets out a slow breath as she bends forward.  A month ago, a question like that out of nowhere would have left her fumbling for an answer she couldn’t give, but she’s getting used to how Caboose works.  Tucker, she runs with in the mornings.  The Reds, she eats with at lunch and dinner.  Caboose, she trains twice a day, three hours each.  They talk a lot during these sessions and it leaves her wrung out and exhausted, no matter how much actual training they do, but.  Somehow, she feels a little fuller than she had before.  She thinks.  She tries to remember those dark days in the cold when she’d been hunting for answers alone and while they’ll never leave her, the bite is getting tougher to replicate.  “I don’t think I am anymore,” she says a little awkwardly.  “Do I seem lonely?”

“Sometimes.”  Caboose watches her stretch before settling himself next to her and copying her position, leaning forward until he can press his forehead to the mats.  His voice comes out as a wheeze.  “But-  I am a lonely person too.  I think-  that lonely people-  are only lonely when there is nobody with them.”

“That’s the definition of lonely, Caboose,” Carolina answers flatly.

“Yeah.  But some people like it and some people don’t.”  Caboose rises when she rises and looks over at her, expression made up of that lofty curiousness he adopts when he’s actually _present_ in a conversation instead of zoning out when he’s bored of whatever he’s doing.  Carolina likes the curiousness.  It reminds her a little of North, and of York.  They always wanted to know more about other people too.  “Do you like it?  Being lonely?”

Carolina tries to look away.  She can’t.  “No,” she says softly.  “I don’t.  Do you?”

Caboose shakes his head.

Carolina reaches up to push her hair back off her forehead before the drying sweat can stick it there.  “Caboose, why do you want to me to talk about my feelings?”

“Because.”  Caboose looks down at his hands pressed against the mat.  He huffs through his nose, thinking.  “Because I think since Church died, you and me are the most loneliest people from it.”  He glances up at the ceiling, unaware of the breath that caught in her chest, _catches_ in her chest whenever anyone mentions _Church_ and _death_ instead of _AI_ and _deleted_.  “Tucker is lonely too, but he has Wash.  And Wash has Tucker.  They take good care of each other.  But nobody is here to take care of you, and nobody is here to take care of me.  So I think we should take care of each other.”  Caboose starts suddenly before groaning and throwing himself back on the mats.  “ _Gah!_   I wasn’t supposed to tell you that!  But that’s also my reasons too, so it was the truth!”

Carolina has no idea what Caboose is yelling about but it doesn’t matter.  _Nobody is here to take care of you._   She wants to argue, snap that she doesn’t _need_ someone taking care of her.  That she’s been doing everything on her own for years, that she’s a grown fucking woman who doesn’t need to be coddled or babied or to have her hand held through daily life.

That voice though, that sounds like her father at his worst.

And the louder one, the one that sounds like her _brother_ says this:

_Hey sis.  Sorry I can’t stick around.  I know I’m leaving behind some good people, and you’re one of the best.  Just do me a favor, okay?  Don’t make this another solo act.  These guys- they’re fuckups of the highest caliber, but at least they’re fuckups who’ll never leave you alone.  You of all people deserve a little company._

“I miss him,” Carolina whispers.  She hears Caboose shift next to her but it’s like it’s far away.  It’s the first time she’s said anything like that.  It’s the first time she’s said anything about Church.  About York.  About her team, about any of them, the first time she’d said anything to anyone but Epsilon about all of her people that wasn’t steeped in bitterness and hate, in a drive for revenge or a gut-burning sensation that made her tamp it back down as far as it would go. 

She sets her jaw.  “I miss- all of them.”

The room feels like a massive cavern, too big to hold her until a hand rests on her back and rubs. Sweaty, pressing too hard, not perfect at all but it makes the room go back to its normal size.  “There there,” Caboose says.  He pauses thoughtfully.  “Or hear hear.  I always forget which.”

Carolina unlocks and leans against his side.  He stinks, and she stinks, but he barely even moves when her head rests against his shoulder and she thinks maybe that’s what she needs right now.  A fixed point.  Something around which to orbit.  She’s been running scared without a trajectory for so long that she doesn’t know how to stop, only knows how to move and hold on to all the wrong things and let go of everything good.  “I guess you’re all right at listening.”

“There’s room for improvement,” Caboose says in his unassuming way, and for a second Carolina can close her eyes and pretend she’s anywhen but now.

* * *

Grif’s room is empty when Simmons bursts into it.

He tries the armory next since it’s basically become Red Team Hangout #1, but inside is just Donut doing jazzercise with that new cook friend of his and wearing something that gives Simmons a good excuse to request a bottle of whiskey from the provisions officer.  It sparkled.  It was sparkling.

He tries the mess hall, he tries all the spots that look like good napping spots.  He tries the closets, and the irony is not lost on him.  He tries Grif’s room again just in case he missed him.  In a fit of sheer lunacy, he checks the training room and finds it occupied.

“Can’t you two fool around in your actual quarters?!  Jesus Christ!  I looked up to you.”  That last part is directed accusingly at a flustered Agent Washington.  Simmons congratulates himself for his nerve and walks away hurriedly with his head down and his hands trembling but it feels something like defiance, like telling his dad he’s a shithead to his face despite that not exactly being an option anymore.  It makes him want to find Sarge and tell him that his music choices are questionable and his plans recklessly optimistic but no, no.  Too much for one day.  Put on the brakes, Simmons.

“Captain!” 

Simmons turns and sees a gaggle of women rushing toward him.  It almost spells the end for him right then and there, so many girls clamoring for his attention but with no intention of dating him or anything like that.  Besides, it’s just his squad.  They kind of have to talk to him, even if it makes him sweat and search frantically for an escape.

“Are you doing better?” one of them asks.  She’s got a hand pressed to her uniform, right there over her heart (and her tit) and Simmons waits for the inevitable internal meltdown that will launch his vocal range up to around where dogs start seizing.

It doesn’t happen.  It doesn’t happen because Simmons, staring at this young woman’s left boob after just having walked in on his newest role model making out with the biggest slut of Blood Gulch (Sister remaining as a strong contender for the title) is on the brink of an epiphany.  The thought occurs to him like a single pin drop in a room of silence and it sounds like this:

_I don’t want to kiss any of you._

There it is.

_Your tits are perky and your faces are gorgeous and I don’t want to kiss a single one of you right now._

“Captain Simmons?”

_I want to kiss a disgusting fucking slob who doesn’t shower enough and refuses to burp the alphabet because he finds it ‘wasteful.’  I actually want to put my mouth on that horrible, awful pile of poor hygiene habits and taste everything from electronic cigarettes to last night’s gravy._

“Umm…Captain?”

_Oh my god._

“Oh my god,” Simmons repeats aloud, for dramatic effect.

His squad looks very worried for him and he supposes that’s fair.  He’s had no less than six panic attacks in front of them, cumulatively (if you can count the one he had in front of Beresford, who hadn’t yet been in his squad when it happened).  Private Chakma moves to take his arm and lead him somewhere but he holds out a hand to stop her, like he suddenly knows how to wield authority as a sword instead of a limp Q-tip.  “I’m good.  I’m doing much better.”

His squad looks even more worried.

“I’m looking for Captain Grif.  Have any of you seen him?”

Jenkins points behind them.  “He was in the square.”

That bit of information at least rattles Simmons enough to distract him from his enlightenment about who exactly he’d be willing to lay the dick to.  “The square?  What the hell’s he doing there?”

Jenkins shrugs.  “Talking to people.”

Any lingering sense of self-important serenity is washed away with that.  Talking?  To other people?  _Voluntarily?_   Simmons had just spent the last forty-five minutes racing around trying to find this prick to confess his stupid gay feelings that he’d finally just fucking come to terms with after _years_ of dealing with it and Grif was off having his own life-changing realization about the benefits of letting people appreciate him?  “Oh fuck no, I’m not letting that fatass get ahead of me,” Simmons says as he circumvents his squad and takes off for the square.  He thinks he hears one of them say something about “ _so_ hot” behind him but it doesn’t matter anymore.  Maybe it never did.

* * *

“Hey asshole!”

Grif lets go of the sixteenth hand he’s shaken since getting out of bed and turns to see Simmons storming over toward him, a ginger beanpole on a mission.  Grif smirks because it’s funny to see Simmons turn red.  “ ‘Sup.”

“Fuck you Grif, what’re you doing out here?!”

“Uh, that’s ‘fuck you, _sir_ ,’ thank you very much.”  Grif folds his arms and ignores the crowd because that’s easy to do with Simmons around.  He commands Grif’s undivided attention in everything they do, provided there’s not food to eat or naps to take.  “I told Kimball I’d take the promotion.”

Simmons throws his hands up in the air.  “You fuck!  I told her I had to think on it because _you_ weren’t taking it!”

“Well yeah, I wasn’t going to _before._ ”

“Then why the fuck _did_ you?!”

“Because I know you’re thirsty for that cock of power and I wasn’t gonna be a lower rank than you, that’s why.”

“Thirs- Fuck you, Grif!  I knew you were too lazy to sign the fucking paperwork and I wasn’t gonna be the only one around who could _actually_ order you to do it!”

Grif scoffs.  “Simmons, please.  You could be an _admiral_ and I wouldn’t obey any orders you have for me.”

Palomo’s voice sounds from somewhere in the back.  “Wait, are you guys gonna make out?”

“Fine, then I’m taking the promotion!”

“Go right ahead, I don’t care.”

Simmons glares.  He glares and sniffs and wrinkles his nose like Grif stinks.  “Did you _shower?_ ”

“I gotta smell everybody else’s BO while I’m out here.”  Grif shrugs a shoulder because it’s too much work to shrug both.  “Not gonna add mine to the mix.”

He watches it and it’s fascinating to see the indignation bleed out of Simmons.  It’s like it really is a liquid draining from a container, starting at his face working its way down.  His shoulders slump, his back hunches, his hands hang lower at his sides as he sighs.  “Sorry.”

“Whatever.”

Simmons folds his arms and the different thing here is that _he’s_ acting like there isn’t a crowd.  Simmons is always aware of people watching him.  Grif feels tired and wants to take a nap, he’s yawning and his chest hurts so he presses a hand to the scars and rubs them but he can’t tear his attention away because he’s pretty sure something’s gonna happen.  Something big is _finally_ gonna happen-

Simmons jerks his head toward the barracks.  “Go on.”

Grif tries not to feel too disappointed.  He turns and slips out of the crowd, digs his hands into his pockets and makes his way back to his room.  If he looks back it’s only to laugh at how Simmons, unlike him, doesn’t know how to walk away from people.

* * *

“Wash, come _on._   How was I supposed to know that would happen?”

“Because this is a public place!  The same reason why I tell you I don’t like PDA because _that_ could very easily happen!  _Like it just did!_ ”

“Come on, it was just _Simmons._   Since when do you care about his opinion of you?”

“I don’t.  I’m just embarrassed.  And I have a reputation to keep, as his commanding officer-”

“Uh, you _still_ don’t have a rank, dude.  You’re like a consultant.”

“ _I still have a reputation to keep,_ Tucker.  Him finding me in- in compromising positions with his peer-”

“Aw yeah, speaking of the position we were in-”

“Stop that!”

“Wait, were you being serious?  Shit.  I thought you were going for an authority kink thing.”

“ _No!_ Oh my god.”

“Wash, _for fuck’s sake,_ it was Simmons.  He and Grif have been doing the gay dance for years, I really don’t think he’s gonna hold this against you.”

“That’s got nothing-“

“At least, not like how I’m gonna hold you against _me_!  _Haha,_ get some!  Bow chika bow wow.”

“I hate you.”

“You _love_ me.”

* * *

“MaryAnne had long hair just like you.”

Caboose braids slowly, very very slowly, but he shockingly hasn’t pulled once and every time Carolina reaches back to touch the plait it feels even and smooth.  Even years later, even after Omega and Alpha and Beta supposedly hosting a smackdown in his brain, even if he forgets his own name and age at least once a week, he can still do this.  Muscle memory.  She _can_ teach him.

Carolina closes her eyes.  “You braided her hair a lot?”

“Every day before she went to work.”  Caboose makes a noise and passes the end of her braid to her.

What she can see of her hair is acceptable and she ties it off with the band she uses in the morning when she jogs with Tucker, the one she uses to pull her hair back before she puts on her armor.  She doesn’t remember where she got it but she’s had it for years and not even being thrown off a cliff had changed that.  Her most steadfast companion.

…she’s definitely spending too much time with Caboose.  Now she’s feeling sentimental about a _hair band._   “Ready to get to work?”

Caboose accepts her hand.  Just because he likes it, Carolina stands on his toes and yanks until Caboose bounces up onto his feet, grinning.  She ruffles his hair because he responds well to praise, to touch and to quiet companionable moments.  She runs him through the stretches and kata, fixes his posture like she does every time, thinks about how much time and attention she’s poured into this one seemingly pointless task when she could be hunting down Hargrove, could be going over organizational plans for Kimball, could be stalking the Reds to make sure they’re not getting into trouble.  She thinks about how this will probably take years to sink into his head, how maybe he won’t be sure about how this goes until he’s her age, until he’s older. 

Maybe one day when his hair is gray and his face has more laugh lines than dimples he’ll be doing this every morning without instruction.  Maybe he’ll have forgotten these sessions, forgotten _her_ but she’ll still live on in the careful steadiness of his hands when he slides from one stance to another, when he braids someone’s hair.  Her name could be in a thousand papers but she hopes, when she’s dead and gone, that the things that are remembered are the sounds of her breath as she jogs alongside Tucker and her laughter at a lunch table full of Red simulation troopers.

She thinks about how Caboose reads (slow, but he _can_ ), how he keeps a picture of a tank above his bed, how he always wears black socks, no matter what.  She thinks about Epsilon’s message sitting on his nightstand, metallic shine already dulling from how many times he’s handled it.

Caboose assumes the next stance without asking her for help.

Carolina smiles.

* * *

This time after Grif’s bandages are changed, Simmons leans forward and lays his forehead atop Grif’s shoulder instead of writing down how much gauze is left in the kit.  “I’ll get there.  Eventually.  Just…give me some time.  All right?”

“Sure, whatever.”  Grif rests his cheek against the side of Simmons’s head because he’s goddamn tired, but not of this.  Never of this.  “Not like I’m going anywhere.”


End file.
